


Vaulting Ambition

by redletters



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redletters/pseuds/redletters
Summary: Pete is the first Campbell in seven generations to not go to his family's swish prep school - instead he's chosen Sterling Cooper High, the cool liberal arts school on the Upper West Side. He has a great girlfriend, OK grades, and has finally earned a seat at the cool kids' table: his dream of making Prom King seems within his grasp. Until a mysterious new transfer student, Bob Benson, arrives to turn Pete's life and dreams upside down!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the encouraging exchange mod and my two betas, especially you! I never would have finished this without you.

Pete was the first Campbell in seven generations not to go to Riverside Preparatory School. His father reminded him of that fact every year in May, around the transfer deadline – as if this time he'd agree to change his mind, leave Sterling Cooper High, make the long walk back across Central Park to the Upper East Side and take up the mantle of his privilege.  
  
Not a chance!!  
  
Pete Campbell was going to be another first in his family: the first really, actually, definitely _self-made man_.  
  
He'd decided that after reading Hemingway in eighth grade. No fancy prep school easing the way for him. Pete would spend his youth in HARD WORK, toiling away attending a normal school with the real salt of the earth. His friends would be the children of congressmen, not senators. He'd make his way on his own, like Jack Kerouac, or a less dirty Tom Joad. And his senior year, he'd be voted prom king and make valedictorian and be student council president, which was how he'd know he had really succeeded, at being a real self-made man.  
  
_Yes!_

Pete's first day at Sterling Cooper High, his mother had packed him off with a money belt under his clothes and a dummy wallet, in case there were Mexicans there waiting to jump at him and steal his Campbell inheritance. "Mother, that's insensitive," Pete said patiently, but she'd just turned up the radio and started laying out all her handbags on the table in the upstairs dining room to count them.

Pete reflected on his bad luck, and sighed. Why hadn't he had the good luck to be born into a liberated and interestingly ethnically mixed family, like Senator Barack Obama, or The Rock?

Anyway there weren't even any Latino people here, that he could see. Oh – maybe that guy in Art.

Pete had picked Sterling Cooper High because it looked like the most interesting charter school that Father was likely to let him go to. It was founded just 30 years ago, by two businessmen – including Roger Sterling's dad! – as a general education school, with the focus on the arts. Pete respected the arts, or at least wanted to be the kind of person who respected them, once he understood them, which was kind of the point of going to a school like Sterling Cooper High in the first place. Lots of important people respected the arts – it was the kind of thing done by a leader of men.

Sterling Cooper High (or SCH as it was known by the cool kids, like Don Draper and Joan Holloway!) was a perfectly interesting place, exactly as he'd hoped. Sporting a cross-section of several different kinds of society, it had seemed like a good place to practice being a big fish in a small pond – at least at first. But SCH was proving to be a tougher row to hoe than he thought. Pete was about to start his first week of senior year and still wasn't even close to his goals!

He noted this down every week in his progress diary.

He'd made at least one friend, and had a girlfriend, Trudy, which as Pete understood it was a pretty important part of success at SCH, considering that all the cool kids seemed to be paired up. But that nerd Peggy Olson had student council president all locked up, even though she was going out with a semi-radical activist who went to PS 84(!), which was surely not behavior befitting a student leader, in Pete's opinion, especially not after she'd turned him down after they made out that one time freshman year. Making valedictorian turned out to be mathematically impossible after he got that D in Ethics. Who knew that was graded??

So really all that was left was prom king, and Pete had studied the previous winners carefully, to try to crack the secrets of their success to learn how to be a real man of the people. They were as follows:  
  
FRESHMAN YEAR: Roger Sterling.  
  
SOPHOMORE YEAR: Don Draper.  
  
JUNIOR YEAR: Don Draper.  
  
SENIOR YEAR: unknown (PETE CAMPBELL????)  
  
And lucky for Pete, Don was doing an exchange term in California in the spring, so the floor was wide open!

Pete was sure he had what it takes to be Don's successor – if only he could 'get in' with the popular kids.  
  
Here was what he thought he could take from previous winners:  
  
ROGER STERLING: Roger's dad was really rich and had co-founded the school, two obvious reasons behind his popularity. Roger also had a knockout gorgeous girlfriend, Mona, who was IN COLLEGE. Both of those things were going to be hard for Pete to pull off. Pete's dad was rich, but it was all in a bank account in the Caymans and they weren't allowed to spend it. So there weren't many lessons he could take from Roger Sterling, except maybe not to drink so much at prom he got alcohol poisoning and had to go to the hospital and got banned from prom for life no matter who your father was, young man. Pete was pretty sure he could handle that.  
  
DON DRAPER: Now, Don Draper was different. It was unusual for someone to win two years in a row, and previously unheard of for a sophomore to win! But it definitely made sense when that someone was Don Draper, because he was a beautifully sculpted blank slate with great hair, a firm jaw and classic tailoring. Pete didn't know anyone else in high school who got his T-shirts tailored, but Don did, and it looked _amazing_. Don's girlfriend, Betty, was also very classically pretty, and head cheerleader, which no doubt helped Don! So the lessons Pete could take from Don were: wear good clothes, have a pretty girlfriend in charge of something, be good at class but not too good, be charming and hang around the seniors' lockers in the north wing after school.  
  
A tall order, but here was how he was doing so far, according to his progress diary:  
  
**Clothes:** Pete was doing  great with clothes. I mean who was his competition here, Ken Cosgrove and his cotton-poly turtlenecks? Harry Crane and his Canal Street aviators? Please.  
  
**Pretty girlfriend in charge of something:** Trudy was definitely pretty and captain of the lacrosse team, and was surprisingly good at things like calculus and jokes. She was from New Jersey, which was REALLY exciting. Pete thought that having a girlfriend who could beat up Don's girlfriend might give him a social boost, but for some reason everyone seemed to like it more when Betty listened really well than when Trudy punched that mugger in the face. This was possibly something to discuss with Trudy when she came over. She came over to his house every Tuesday and Thursday night to help Pete with his homework and talk about their ideas about life, and on Saturday nights sometimes they went to the movies and discussed what they thought. It was a very intellectually stimulating relationship and Pete could definitely picture them being behind a podium together some day while he said something inspirational and she beamed at him wearing a red dress. Not too bright red though, that might give the wrong impression.  
  
**Be good at class but not too good:** Pete was NAILING this.  
  
**Be charming and hang around the seniors' lockers in the north wing after school:** But the thing was, for some reason, none of the other stuff was working the way he thought it would! Don tolerated him, Roger and Betty and Joan and Peggy barely listened to him, and he had once caught Ken ROLLING HIS EYES at the lunch table when he'd been making a very important point about the need for underclassmen to respect senior precedence in the locker room! What was the world coming to??

But that was all going to change this year, his senior year at S – C – H. 

This was IT!!!!!

* * *

 

Senior year started off okay. There was nothing special the first morning, during Algebra and Chemistry, although Pete detected a palpable buzz around the table of Roger Sterling and Don Draper as everyone tried to figure out who would be Roger's lab partner when Don left. It could be Pete! He tried to assert how much he knew about the chemical structures of molecular composition, and he was pretty sure he had made a strong impression on Roger, but it was hard to tell. Before Pete knew it they had whizzed through third period and it was lunchtime.

Pete sat at the lunch table with his elbows propped up, trying to decide whether to have his first bite of senior year be from the hot dog or the fries. Peggy came up and put her tray down next to him.

"Hey Pete!" she said.

Pete really liked Peggy, and not only because she let him put his hand down her top in freshman year, which they'd mostly agreed not to talk about, in a dignified and grown-up way, even though it was one of the few times in his life Pete could remember experiencing true happiness. They'd been standing by themselves by the punch table at the fall mixer, and gone off behind the bleachers to hang out. Six months later Pete was with Trudy and Peggy was with… was it Amos? He couldn't remember. Anyway, it felt like they had both made the right decision, although Pete sometimes wondered about the road not taken.

"Hi," he said.

"How's it going?"

Well, it was nice of Peggy to be interested in his day.

Pete lifted a fry. "Do you think it's possible for humanity to be transformed through internal enlightenment?"

Something like a tiny sigh came out of Peggy's shoulders. "Sure, Pete," she said.

"Sometimes I think the only solution to humankind's eternal struggle is to submit to the will of fate and take the consequences," he explained. "But that doesn't help, because there's always going to be someone strong trying to dictate the path of history."

Peggy stood up. "I'm going to go get a soda pop. Do you want anything?"

"So why shouldn't that someone be me?" Pete said.

Peggy was gone.

Pete ate the fry.

Why was there always so much salt on these damn things?

Joan and Roger came up and sat down next to him, Roger splaying out his knees like a praying mantis in skinny jeans. Pete subtly tried to practice doing the same under the table, but he couldn't really get the hang of it, and he just ended up looking like he was trying to straddle an invisible tricycle. Then Trudy sat down on his other side, and everyone else, and Pete stopped trying to imitate Roger Sterling and focused more on responding appropriately and in witty ways to the banter taking place around the table.

It was pretty great! Trudy patted his knee proudly after a particularly crisp _bon mot_.

Yes, all things considered the first day of his senior year at Sterling Cooper High was going pretty well.

Little did he know that the very next month, would be the entrance into his life of someone new, who would change it forever!

* * *

 

But first came the fall mixer, the first school party of the year. It was on Friday, and it was a good getting-to-know you event. It was here that Pete and Peggy had their "encounter", and here that Pete and Trudy had met for the first time in sophomore year, and was overall in Pete's experience a pretty good place to see and be seen.

Even with just two weeks, the Student Body Social Committee (ably headed by Joan) had organized the Homecoming event brilliantly, with a Hawaiian theme. Pete entered the SCH cafeteria to find it bedecked with palm trees and twinkly lights, and tiki torches to add a festive tropical atmosphere. He had paired his summer khaki shorts with a light blue cotton shirt, and a red and green lei – he thought the people of the islands might be a little more careless with their color combinations than one would usually expect. He quickly caught sight of Trudy, who was talking to Roger Sterling, and kept putting her hand on his arm. She was wearing a fake grass skirt, that swished a little when she gestured. It was very enticing and Pete's eyes kept being drawn to her thighs.

He strode over. "Why hello there, you two!" he said debonairely. "I hope there's nothing going on to make me jealous! Ha ha!"

"Oh, you!" Trudy punched his arm playfully.

They really did make a great team.

Pete scanned the room in hopes of finding someone to flirt with in response and make her wildly jealous, in a joking way of course, but everyone seemed to be talking to someone already. There was only left to him Harry Crane, who was wearing an actual Hawaiian shirt for some god-only-known reason, and Ken Cosgrove, who wasn't even wearing shorts at all, but a pair of shiny full-length khakis, that still had a residual store shelf crease in them. They made Pete sad. Harry and Ken were standing by the punch bowl. There was a buffet table with a big glass bowl of red fruit punch, and pineapple skewers and other tribal snacks.

Over in the corner away from the speakers, Betty had her head together with her best friends Francine and Helen. All the girls were wearing pretty, flowery dresses. Betty's was pale pink and had a full skirt, with darker pink roses printed on it. The other girls wore pleasant complementary colors. Joan walked in: her dress was a pencil skirt and bright dark blue-green, like the color of the sea on a bright August day before a storm. It had red hibiscus flowers on it. Pete liked Joan but he also found her VERY intimidating in ways he couldn't explain to himself.

Oh, thank god! There was Peggy. She was wearing her normal school clothes and a lei. She was there with her boyfriend Abe (Abe! That was it!). Abe was also wearing normal clothes, if a faded Che T-shirt and a resentful expression was normal for his kind of person, which Pete supposed it was. He went over to talk to them.

"This is so colonialist," Abe was explaining to Peggy. "These stereotypes of cheerful, subservient so-called native islanders have been used to serve the European imperialist interests since, I don't know, basically the McKinley administration."

"Please just drink the fruit punch, Abe," Peggy said.

The music started up, a kind of fiesta song. "Oh, I think I found myself a cheerleader," the winsome singer sang. "She is always right there when I need her." Pete was pleased. It described his life pretty much exactly, except for the specifics!

"Shall we?" he said to Trudy.

Because it was a Hawaiian theme, they had practiced a kind of traditional luau dance, in case any appropriate music happened to come up. Everyone looked very impressed.

"I bet they're picturing what it will be like when we win prom king and queen!" Trudy said under her breath as they walked towards the punch bowl, beaming.

Pete was also flushed with victory, but he did feel the need to correct her misapprehension. "When I win prom king," he said kindly. "Betty is definitely winning prom queen."

He was so content as he munched on the pineapple skewers. Later, he would look back on this time as the last truly happy moment of his senior year.

* * *

 

Pete knew he would have to do some work this year, not only to lock in his place at the Cool Kids' Table and be voted Prom King, but also to practice being an adult moving in the world of power and influence. Life at SCH wouldn't last forever! He was jotting down some notes in his notebook during morning assembly, when Principal Cooper said something that caught his ear – both as a student, and as a future potential leader of society.

"Having a say in the way our nation is run is one of the most important duties and privileges of a citizen of the great United States of America," Principal Cooper said. "For those of you old enough to vote, I hope you will exercise the privilege thoughtfully and responsibly. For those of you under age 18, consider becoming involved with a political campaign, so you can prepare yourself for full civic adulthood."

Pete nodded. This would be a wonderful way to get the experience he needed to intern in a senator's office, or something like that – and all the while showing to the group what a great person he, Pete Campbell, was!

The group left the assembly buzzing with conversation.

"I don't know about voting, I'm not really sure it makes much of a difference," Betty said quietly, as they walked from the main building around the back towards the science classrooms. "At least, not in New York. But I love her style! It's really hard to dress like a powerful woman in a way that's still pretty and feminine."

Pete knew she was speaking from experience. "Well I think you manage it admirably well, Betty," he said reassuringly.

"Thank you."

"Style isn't really the point though, is it," Peggy said. "I mean, I don't know, why are we talking about what Sarah Palin _wears_ so much? Instead of what she did when she was governor, or, you know, what she actually says about her policies? Isn't it kind of, I don't know…?"

"Mmm – " Francine said.

"It's because she looks _amazing_ ," Joan said firmly. Several of the other girls flutteringly agreed.

"I feel bad for Senator McCain," Ken said. "Did you know he can't raise his arms above his head? Because he was a prisoner of war."

"Yeah, he's got a great story," Harry said. "I sure as fuck wouldn't do it, that's for sure."

Pete felt pressure rising in the back of his throat. This was such an important election – the country had never been more divided. OK, it maybe wasn't literally as bad as the Civil War. But it was CLOSE!

"Although Michelle is _really_ stylish too," Joan conceded.

"EXCUSE ME," Pete said. Harry Crane, standing closest to him, jumped. "HOW CAN YOU PEOPLE NOT REALIZE THAT THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN OF OUR ENTIRE LIFETIMES, IF NOT THE HISTORY OF THIS ENTIRE GOL-DARNED BLESSED COUNTRY?!"

There was a small moment of stunned silence, then Francine reached for a cigarette to light it. Damn, Francine was cool! Focus, Pete.

"It's all the same, anyway," Harry said. " _Real_ politics are all about Congress, and Congress is fucked."

Pete resolved then and there to make personally sure that Senator Barack Obama became the next president of the United States of America.

* * *

When Pete was a boy, his parents encouraged him to come talk to them about things like this. About when he wanted something, and a little "Old New York" power and influence could help. His parents would usually come through. But Pete wasn't going to ask them this time: the whole point of going to SCH was learning to practice doing things to change the world by himself!!

With the approval of Principal Cooper, Pete set up a Young Democrats stall in the cafeteria.

Roger Sterling stopped by. "Nice stall," he said sarcastically. Or was that just his normal voice? It was so hard to tell with Roger. "Really fighting the good fight against all the Republicans at the liberal arts school in the Upper West Side."

"There might be some unconvinced independents," Pete responded. "And actually, Roger, I think you'll find the greatest threat to the Democratic vote in the 18- to 25-year-old demographic isn't Republicans – it's voter apathy."

"Whatever," Roger said.

How did Roger not understand that he was proving Pete's point EXACTLY?!

The week before the election, Pete went uptown after school to go canvassing for Senator Obama.

Most of the people he encountered were old Jewish people and Latinos. At one door on 107th, he met a Dominican schoolteacher. When he launched into his excited discussion of Senator Obama's virtues despite his relatively humble background, she looked him up and down and laughed. "Well, I wasn't going to vote for him before," she said, "but _you_ , chico, _you_ have convinced me. Good one."

Pete left swelling with civic pride. Here he was, the child of New York privilege, pounding the streets and single-handedly helping to bring about true racial equality in America. She had even called him by an affectionate multicultural nickname!! What a great story this would make in a campaign speech in ten or fifteen years' time! Maybe ten, he should be prepared for ten. Just in case.

He tried the 'chico' thing out on the next door, a group of Puerto Rican electrical workers, but it didn't go so well.

The weekend before the election, Pete could hardly sleep for excitement. It felt like a change was a-coming, rolling down the track – but was that just the insular bubble of his New York privilege? This really was the big test. Next Tuesday would be a truly important day in the life of all Americans, but especially Pete Campbell!

The night of the election, DON DRAPER!!!!!!!!!!! had some of the students over to watch the results come in. It was truly a great privilege and an honor to be invited to Don Draper's apartment, because none of the students had ever seen it before!

Don was somewhat of a mystery to the student body, even after three and a half years. No one knew why he lived by himself, or where his parents were, or why he looked so moody when he was alone.

Pete didn't care. An invite to Don's apartment meant he was _definitely_ In the Crowd now, a vital member of the inner circle.

Don opened the door, and frowned slightly at Pete. "Did I invite you?" he said. "Oh – Trudy! Of course I did. Sorry, great to see you. Come on in."

Trudy smiled brightly, and stepped inside in front of Pete.

The sofa at Don's was new, too new. Pete kept slipping off the arm. Trudy patted his hand patiently. Don and Betty were there, Don looking interested and Betty looking interested in her drink. She had a new dress on, and kept smoothing it down over her knee. Mona, Roger's amazingly cool college girlfriend, had bought a case of wine. Roger was already lit.

The girls were talking about their outfits for Don's goodbye party, which was happening the weekend after school broke up for Winter Break. Of course it was really a break for Christmas, but it was insensitive to say that, because it might offend Ginsberg, and maybe some other people. And that was important in fulfilling the American Dream. Pete took liberalism extremely seriously – all the Campbells did. As should all Americans!

"They listen to some great music, I'll give 'em that," Roger slurred. Mona socked his leg.

The results continued to roll in, and things were looking GREAT for Obama! With every state's electoral vote declared, Pete's heart swelled more and more.

But the gathering around him wasn't as enthusiastic as Pete had been expecting. His fellow students were carrying on normally, chatting and joking: treating this as just another social event in their everyday lives. It felt like only Pete realized this was the beginning of REMAKING AMERICA! Everything was oddly dim and formal, until Pete's phone buzzed.

It was Peggy. "Warehouse party uptown! Bring beer!"

Pete threw his head back in despair. No one had worked as hard for this result as he, yet here he was, an afterthought perched on Don Draper's parvenu upholstery. And where the real party was happening, no doubt with all sorts of joyful mingling and celebratory adulation, he wasn't even there. Don's house was suddenly stultifying.

"I need to get out of here," he said, pushing past Trudy and out the door.

He walked ten blocks up Broadway, while cars honked at him in celebration. A big weight was on his chest like a heaviness. Then Pete realized, it wasn't a weight on his chest – it was a weight on his shoulders. The weight, he realized further, of the world.

Who was he to be so mournful on the day American democracy succeeded in its great experiment? Because he wasn't at the center of it? Well too darn bad! He, Pete Campbell, would live to fight another day. Right joyfully! He squared his shoulders and marched up towards Peggy's party, where the bohemians were.

The address she'd texted over was in an old building, and the door downstairs was open.

"Hello?" Pete called out. There was music playing. He stood in the dark stairwell for a moment, taking it in and girding himself in the armor of joviality, before ascending to the height of frivolity. He strode up the stairs, which were wooden and reassuringly old. Upstairs, the room was a loft, with high ceilings, beanbags and plastic cups aplenty.

He found Peggy standing next to Abe. Abe was holding court about what the election result meant for the white working class. Peggy looked like she'd bitten into an unripe pineapple.

A boy his own age passed by who looked like he might have weed.

Pete touched him on the arm.

"Hey – do you have any weed?" Pete said.

The guy looked him up and down. "Are you just saying that because I'm black?"

Pete was OUTRAGED!!!! He had basically single-handedly delivered the state of New York for Senator – nay, _President-elect_ – Obama, and this kid was accusing him of (he almost whispered it in his mind) _racism_? He took a breath ready to deliver a puffed-up riposte to the other student, but the other boy cracked up laughing.

"Man, your face! Of course I got weed. You after anything in particular, or…?"

"Just the normal kind," Pete said. "You know, normal, everyday weed."

"Midtown special," the guy said. "Uh, that'll be – $70?" Pete took out his wallet, counted out the money – thank goodness he'd come prepared! – and held it out. The guy looked at the bills in Pete's hand. "Oh – and, uh, rolling papers are $20 extra," he said.

I tell you what, Pete thought to himself, taking out more bills and handing them over, this mingling with the people business doesn't come cheap.

He sat in the corner with his Midtown special – what a cool name! – and suddenly made several new friends. One of them patted his knee conspiratorially as they all talked about congressional seat distribution and suchlike, and what it actually meant to be a community organizer.

Pete suddenly had a vision of himself, twenty years in the future. He'd be sitting at a table like this, with people like this, talking about politics like this. Like important people! Talking about the way the world was going, making decisions based on information and their moral values.

He shifted in his beanbag chair and dropped precipitously by six inches.

OK, maybe there wouldn't be beanbag chairs at the important table, but it was still a pretty good preview.

He noticed Peggy standing by herself, and made a wry face. She made one back. She came to sit next to him, and Pete sat up straighter. "What's going on?" she said too-peppily.

"Do you want some weed?" Pete said.

" _God_ , yes," Peggy said. They sat next to each other companionably.

It was really nice to be around her, but Pete could tell Peggy was feeling down. "I'm sorry you're not having a good time tonight," he said.

She looked over at Abe and sighed. "Thanks," she said.

Pete sort of liked that Peggy was in a bad mood, because it reminded him how nice it was to not be the unhappiest person in the room sometimes. But this wasn't a night for gloominess, this was a night for celebrating the great victory of America's future! He thought about what he could do to cheer her up.

"I just wanted to say, I've always thought you have really nice breasts," Pete said.

"Oh my god, fucking _men_ ," Peggy said, and got up and left.

What – it had been a compliment!!

* * *

 

The next morning Pete was still swelling with pride for his country. He burst into the halls of SCH with a song in his heart and brotherly joy on his face.

"Nice one, Shirley!" he said to one of the freshmen he passed.

"Who is that?" he heard her ask.

"Just, don't," her friend replied.

Pete must have done something wrong. Of course! From today, nobody in America saw race any more. He'd find her at lunch and apologize. If Pete could find her, now that he was fully color blind! Ha ha!

He sat in English class waiting for class to start, tapping his fingers on the desk in a futuristic tempo. This challenge complete, next came Prom King!

A strange boy stuck his head in the door.

"Hi!" he said cheerfully. "Is this AP Senior English? I'm Bob Benson, a new transfer student. Today's my first day."

"This is AP _Senior_ English," Mrs. Blankenship said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Bob Benson," he said, in exactly the same tone. "I'm new! I'm a transfer student. It's my first day!"

"No one told me about any new transfer students," she said.

"They're still figuring out my paperwork," he said. He was beaming. "Principal Cooper said I should just come here, in the meantime. While they figure out my paperwork."

Mrs. Blankenship harrumphed about no one ever telling her anything, and finally found the power switch.

Bob sat down in the empty desk in front of Pete. "I transferred here from DC," he explained to nobody in particular. He set a brand new notebook and a shiny pencil case on his desk, and took out two perfectly sharpened, even pencils.

"That's a very nice pencil case," Pete said.

Bob went still. "Thank you," he said. He turned around to face Pete, and looked him in the eye. "Thank you very much."

"Okay," Pete said.

Bob turned back around and took out a notebook. Pete examined the back of his head. The new guy's head was very symmetrical and had dark hair similar to Don's, but less shiny and coiffed. Bob sat quietly for the rest of the class, taking careful notes and looking up at Mrs. Blankenship at the right moments.

Halfway through the class period, Pete forgot about Bob at all; he was thinking about what it would be like to have Don Draper looking up at HIM for a change!

* * *

 

Their English assignment for the first week was to read _The Great Gatsby_. Pete took it to the Italian coffee place on the corner to read. He didn't like reading at home, there was always something that Mother needed him to do for her, or Buddy wanting to talk, or Father standing around looming in a disappointed way.

The story of _The Great Gatsby_ was about Nick Carraway, a nice sort of supporting figure from the Midwest, and his friend Jay Gatsby, whose name was really Gatz. That should have been the tip-off. There was also Jordan Baker, who was smart and sporty and efficient and pretty, and a fitting companion for Nick. She reminded Pete of Trudy. If Nick wanted, he could have gone far past the investment banking career his father had set up for him. And then there were Daisy and Tom, who Pete didn't like.

The Buchanans were supposed to be the moral center of Egg society, the matriarch and patriarch that set the example for everyone. This is what Pete's parents had always taught him was the responsibility of the 'have's: to be a model for the 'have nots' so they could see what kind of people they could be if only they made better life choices. But Tom was not only a drunk (which would have been excusable after all, Pete had heard stories about his great-uncle Robert Campbell during the 1920s – and beyond!), not only an adulterer (not ideal – but then it was a different time, and also it was different for men, Father often explained), but a racist! No, that was really not okay. The leading lights of society had a responsibility to be good, to set the standard for everyone else, to signal what was acceptable and what wasn't.

Pete closed the book and rested it on the chrome counter; he felt very thoughtful as he walked home.

On Monday they returned to class to talk about their reading.

Mrs. Blankenship started the discussion as usual, by looking for her glasses for five minutes before she realized they were on her blouse.

"All right, all right," she said. It was like the soothing dry barking of a terrier. "Now. Gatsby. Yes." She shuffled through her notes. "What did you…think about the book?"

Betty put her hand up.

"I really feel for Daisy," she said. "I liked that she decided to stick with her marriage even though she didn't love her husband and secretly wanted to be married to someone else. I thought that showed real moral bravery. But I didn't think she had to murder Gatsby, that was a little far."

Even Mrs. Blankenship looked nonplussed.

"Um, Betty, Daisy didn't murder Gatsby," Joan said.

"I'm pretty sure she did," Betty said.

Mrs. Blankenship found her notes. "What did you think about…the symbolism of the green light?"

"I _loved_ it," the new kid, Bob Benson, said feelingly.

"Hands," Mrs. Blankenship said.

Ken put his hand up. "I think the story should have been called The Great Nick Carraway," he said. "Nick was the character who saw everything through to the end. He was a good friend to everyone, and I think that kind of solid, thoughtful support of friends – even when they're not acting that great – is, kind of, you know, undervalued. In today's world."

"Yeah, but he's from _Kansas_ ," Pete said.

"I liked the part where he goes down in the elevator," Bob said. That was a good point – Pete liked that part too.

" _Hands_ ," Mrs. Blankenship snapped.

Pete stuck his hand up, but Mrs. Blankenship called out, "Don."

"I think the story tells us that there are no heroes in America any more," Don said. A ripple of agreement ran across the class.

Dammit, Don – _Pete_ had just been going to say that!!!

"Interesting," Mrs. Blankenship said.

"First, Gatsby," Don said. "He should have understood that he would never really 'make it'. He was chasing an intangible dream, the wisping of a silken cloud already slipping past the horizon. Daisy was the dream – the embodiment of the dream. It's an interesting word, embodiment. Em-body-ment. The body that she inhabits, but is never truly hers: the corporeal, the corpus, in the Latin – or corpse. Jordan _is_ but never truly _lives_. Even Nick is relatable – an interesting word. Relatable. Someone who is relatable exists only in relationship with other people, never on his own. He is relating without being present, telling the story without truly seeing – until it's too late. And Tom wins because, well, don't they always win, these people? These messy people, never turning around or looking back, because they never have to? Gatsby's tragedy is that he wanted what he could never have – and yet is unable to stop himself from wanting it. That is the tragedy of America today."

He pulled out a Hershey's bar from his pocket and started to eat it, slowly, thoughtfully.

"Wow. Really nice work, Don," Mrs. Blankenship said.

Pete put his hand up again.

"I think that's it for today," Mrs. Blankenship said. "I mean, really. Wow. Class dismissed."

The gang went down to their lockers to drop off their bags before lunch.

Pete was furious!! He had so much to say on the subject of unattainable dreams, that Don could never understand. What had Don ever wanted and not got? A pretty girlfriend? Betty was so much the prettiest girl in school that sometimes Pete felt sad for Trudy. Straight As? The teachers ate his spaghetti of nonsense up with a plastic spoon. Great jeans that showed off his butt? Seriously, where the hell was Don buying his clothes from??? 

But Pete was not someone who could simply stroll into wherever it was, the GAP or Nordstrom Rack, and pick anything off the shelf and wear it with form-fitting pride. He needed to display respectability, as a future great member of society. His parents knew this! Trudy knew this! Even the new kid Bob seemed to know this! Why didn't everyone else appreciate this?

Pete took a deep, deep, slow calming breath. Calm down, he reminded himself. This was his task. He hadn't come to SCH because it would be easy, he had come because being a real man of the people meant spending time with them, even when it was annoying. He banged his locker door hard, to firm up his resolve, then pressed his forehead against it and breathed in.

"I just have a lot going on," he told it.

The locker pressed back like it understood him. It was nice to be supported. He wondered if he could stay like this all day.

Probably not. He went to get his lunch tray.

The table was full.

"There are too many students at this school," Pete snapped. "They'll let anyone in these days."

Trudy looked over at him, and her face took on that determined expression that had first drawn him to her in the early days of their courtship. His heart leaped. "Hey, Pete, there's a space over here!" she called, and cleared a space for him.

"Oh, thanks," he said casually and with cool laissez-faire, "I didn't see you there."

She smiled at him.

"My very own Jordan Baker," he said warmly.

"You know, I was reading about Fitzgerald's life, and apparently Jordan Baker was a hit job?" Peggy said. "There was a real-life woman golfer – "

"Uh, Pegs, I think the term is 'lady golfer'," Harry sniggered. "Ow! Who kicked me."

No one and everyone had kicked Harry Crane.

" – who F. Scott Fitzgerald didn't like very much, so he wrote Jordan Baker to be mean about her," Peggy finished.

"Well, that didn't work out," Joan said. She and Peggy looked at each other, and laughed.

It worried Pete when that happened.

Despite the day's invigorating discussion, Pete felt very sad. Although he would never really know what it was like to be Gatsby, he too felt a yearning for something just beyond his reach. The title of Prom King flickered before him like a green light across the water, the sash and crown fluttering in front of him, just out of his grasp.

Wait – was the moral of this story that he should throw more parties?

Everyone really liked Gatsby when he threw parties. And – Pete's breath was leaping in his chest, like a little dolphin trying to hop through the hoop – the problem with Gatsby's parties had been his inferior social standing, which let's face it was NOT going to be a problem with Pete!

YES!

This was it!

We of today truly have so much to learn from the classics!! Pete returned home beaming.

* * *

 

But what kind of parties? This was going to take some work. Pete took out his progress notebook and drew a relationship/value map of everyone at school.

Top table: Roger Sterling – obviously. Don Draper, Joan Holloway, Betty – all also obviously. All those people were golden, they weren't going anywhere. Other people who were safe included their best friends and boyfriends and girlfriends: Betty's BFFs Francine and Helen, Roger's girlfriend Mona, and Joan's boyfriend at military school, who was kind of a douche and everyone (including Joan) called Dickhead Greg. Pete would also put Trudy at this level, although it chafed him to admit it. She was so damned good at lacrosse.

The next table, in orbit: Ken Cosgrove, Harry Crane, Paul Kinsey. And now, apparently, Pete. And some of the junior girls they hung out with sometimes: Meredith and Cynthia.

After them, the real outliers: all the weird kids in Art – Ginsberg, Midge and Stoner Stan – and the sophomores and other underclassmen.

Peggy was kind of baffling because she didn't seem to care about sitting at the cool table, which annoyingly was somehow the coolest thing of all.

What would be a good occasion for a party? The Campbell family St Andrew's Night ceilidh was the obvious immediate choice, being _the_ late-November social event of the Upper East Side and therefore in theory a great opportunity to impress his friends, but Pete couldn't really see inviting people from school. He didn't trust Roger Sterling to know the Gay Gordons or the Dashing White Sergeant, and it would only embarrass them all as he tried to keep up with the basket sets. Pete had read in a book that it wasn't good to humiliate people when you were trying to influence them, even though you might think it made sense to remind them of their inferiority so they would just do what you said.

Pete was looking forward to talking it over with Trudy. But his hopes, dreams and nascent plans were all SHATTERED that night when Trudy came over to hang out and talk and practice.

As they walked through the steps of the Siege of Ennis, they also discussed how things were going for Pete's dream goal to become Prom King. Occasionally Trudy brought up how her college plans were going, but Pete didn't really understand why. Her academic prowess was a credit to him, sure, but he was certain it would look bad for her to be TOO much smarter than he was, right?

Then, for some reason, Trudy didn't take it very well when Pete suggested she practice listening a little better, like Betty.

Why was Trudy acting like this was some kind of catastrophe? Pete was only trying to help them become more popular! And then Trudy said she wanted to 'take a break' even though Pete was SURE that being in a couple was better for popularity, so that had backfired incredibly drastically!

Now Trudy was in tears and his plans were in ruins!

Pete thought about how happy they had been at the fall mixer – truly happy! – and almost burst into tears himself. Why was everything against him?

How was he supposed to host a cool party by himself?!?!!!!

At least there were a few things in his life he could put right, Pete told himself the next day. Ken was TAing in the counselor's office this semester, and now that college applications were starting, Pete wanted to see if he could delete that 'D' from his transcripts.

He passed the new kid, Bob Benson, standing in the hall near the gym.  
  
"Hey Pete! Tropicana?" Bob said. He was holding out a plastic bottle of reconstituted orange juice. "The machine gave me two!"  
  
Pete waved him off – the period was over in ten minutes! – but then remembered something. "Have your papers come through yet?"  
  
Bob's smile froze. "Papers?"  
  
"You know, your transcripts. From your other school. You said you were waiting on them."  
  
"Oh, my transcripts!" Bob smiled cheerfully. "Yes, from the school I went to in DC! No, not yet! I guess it's taking a while. No worries!"  
  
Pete was concerned. Bob seemed like a good kid, and Pete wanted to see him do well in life. He could have a bright future as some politician's chief of staff someday.  
  
"Bob, you should really chase those up," he said kindly. "It's important for college, and your future."  
  
"Thank you for thinking about my future," Bob said.  
  
It felt like there was a lot of meaning behind those words, but Pete wasn't really sure what it was.  
  
"Sure," he said.  
  
He could feel Bob's eyes on him as he walked away.  
  
What a respectful young man, he thought.  
  
But at lunchtime Pete's feeling of pleasure swiftly turned to one of betrayal. When he put his tray down at his usual seat at the usual table, Trudy shook her head. "You can't sit there. Bob's sitting there today."  
  
Bob...BENSON???!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
He looked around at all their faces. Roger shrugged, Joan focused on her food, Betty looked a little sad for him (at least he thought so, she was a hard one to read) and Trudy held firm. Don wasn't even looking at him, the coward, instead staring over at the sophomore girls' table.  
  
Pete grabbed his tray and stormed over to the next table, where Ken, Paul and Harry were eating amiably. Harry looked surprised.  
  
"Hey Pete!" he said.  
  
"Shut up, Harry Crane," Pete said savagely.

In the afternoon Pete went to the library, to work hard on his college applications.

They had several options for essays, and Pete had decided to write about a struggle he had overcome. He was going to write it about his struggle to become Prom King, but the problem was that he hadn't overcome it yet. This led him to think about how he would overcome this struggle, so he could write about it for his admissions essay, but the clear and impenetrable fact was that he just couldn't see a way around it. Even without Don around, and if Trudy took him back – if he would _have_ her back!! – it felt like there was just too much to make up in the single semester until prom.

The books on the shelves crowded around him, mocking him with their neatly labeled sections and categories. Pete had tried to break free from categories, like the category of his parents' wealth and the curse of the Campbell-Dyckman millstone around his neck, that meant he wasn't free to seek his own fortune like a lesser-born boy, and led to embarrassing things like Anderson Cooper recognizing him at the Co-op. No one wants to talk to you over the ancho chilis, Anderson!!

Pete was lost in despair at the inevitability of life's mechanical clockwork when Bob walked up, one hand jammed in his pocket and the other holding a sheaf of paper.

"Hey Pete, can I check with you about this college admissions essay?" Bob said.

Ugh, BOB. THE USURPER.

But on the other hand, it was still nice to be asked for advice. There wasn't a lot of room at Pete's desk, but he made as much as he could. Their knees almost bumped against each other.

"I've decided to write about Prompt Three," Bob said. He wasn't really looking down at his paper, he was looking more at Pete. "About someone you admire."

Pete had thought about writing for that essay. The problem was that ever since his sophomore year he had become increasingly disillusioned with the world, and no longer truly admired anyone. Well, Barack Obama of course. But everyone was going to write an essay about admiring Barack fucking Obama, if Pete was going to stand out he should be writing about someone like Jon Stewart or that nice Canadian up-and-comer Justin Trudeau. Now there was someone truly admirable: great hair, wise politics, and a respectably tragic family backstory. It was an inspiration. Pete should point it out to his mother – maybe she could have the simple dignity to go clubbing with Bowie before suffering beautifully from a mental illness in an awareness-raising way and then walking arm-in-arm with him around to meet constituents.

Pete realized Bob was waiting for a response. "Oh yeah?" he said. "That sounds like a good essay, who were you thinking?"

"It's a student here, actually," Bob said. He took a deep breath.

If it was Don fucking Draper Pete was going to jump out a window.

"It's someone here – at this desk."

Bob admired...Bob? Wait, no. Bob admired...Pete!

Well, that made sense!

But it was also confusing! Bob was Pete's sworn enemy because he had suborned his place at the cool kids' table!

This was fine.

Actually, Pete could use this to his advantage.

"I'm really glad to hear you felt you could say this to me," Pete said smoothly. "Would you like me to read over your college essay?"

"That would be great, thanks!" Bob said. He gave the impression of biting his lip without actually biting it before continuing, "Also, I was wondering if you wanted to be my partner in Politics?"

For their end-of-year Politics final, they had to find a partner and pick an important issue, and give a presentation on it as if they were addressing Congress. It was to give them real-life experience of researching and public speaking, in case any of them grew up to be important people. Betty and Francine had paired up of course, Roger and Joan for some reason, Peggy was doing it with Stan, and Trudy had grabbed Helen for a partner before Pete could even pointedly not ask her, to show how little he cared. Pete had been looking for someone thoughtful so they could do something really impressive, and Bob seemed like a perfectly adequate partner.

"Sure," Pete said. "That would be fine. Do you want to start by coming up with a few ideas, and we can talk about them next week?" 

"Sounds great!" Bob said. "I'll defer to you."

Pete swelled even more than he already had. Yes, Bob would.

* * *

 

Although Pete still had hopes for throwing a great party to become popular and demonstrate his social dominance and have everyone like him, when Ken and Harry said they were going out to a new club on Saturday night, he agreed to come along. Maybe he'd meet a girl who would be pretty and help him organize social events!

They got the C train to Greenwich Village, and walked over to the club. It was called the Salt and Pepper. Spicy! Pete had heard of it before, although he couldn't remember why. Someone had mentioned it in a way that made Pete think there was more going on here than met the eye. The outside wasn't much, but Pete knew from experience of watching films that that was a good sign that something great was happening on the inside.

He, Ken, Paul and Harry Crane waited for a few minutes while the security guy at the door looked them over. Pete tried to look hardened and bored, like he went to joints like this a million times. The security guy seemed especially interested in Paul, who smiled back affably.

"Have you guys been here before?" the bouncer said finally.

"I've been to many clubs," Pete said assuredly. "The University, the Union, the Knickerbocker – "

"Me too," Harry said.

WHAT?

"You have not been to the Knickerbocker," Pete said.

"I could have been," Harry said.

"You have not."

"You don't know that."

"You have _not_ been to the Knick," Pete said, warming up. "Who do you know there?"

"Uh, you know… Tom," Harry said.

"Tom _who?_ " This was TOO MUCH even for Harry!!!

For some reason this exchange seemed to satisfy the security guy. "All right, come on through," he said, and opened the rope. The foyer was painted black, like the studio theater at SCH, and stapled with pictures of women with lots of makeup and very buff men.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Ken said.

"Uh, he didn't check our IDs, did he?" Harry said. "Dingus."

Pete was scanning the crowd, checking for cute girls. Maybe they would be coming later. They were probably still at home getting ready, putting on their fripperies such as eyeliner and necklaces. Trudy often wore such things, and Pete found them very fetching. It was reassuring that she took so much care with her appearance to please him. Although not any more! Pete's heart was saddened, and imagining Trudy here with him, he had to stifle a small sob.

"I'll go get some drinks," he said, to cover. He started to make his way to the bar.

Hold on – was that…Bob?

It wasn't even midnight yet, but Bob Benson was there, and furthermore he was dancing with abandon, his tidy checked shirt barely untucked. His hair was groomed and his head was tilted back. Pete had never seen Bob so relaxed. He couldn't stop staring. It was like a blob of sunshine happiness had come to rest on the floor of the club and was spitting out sparks of yellow-gold joy glitter everywhere. What a wonderful time Bob Benson was having. Pete ached. He wanted to have this nice time too.

Through the crowd, their eyes met.

Bob stopped. No! Pete wanted to cry out. Keep going! But alas Bob had stopped dancing, and was coming over to them, pushing his way through the people. "Hey!" he said. He took in Pete with bright eyes, then looked over at Harry, Ken and Paul. "I didn't know you were, ah. How did you hear about – what are you guys doing here?"

"Peggy said her boyfriend said this was a good club to go if you don't want to get IDed," Harry said loudly over the music.

"Oh – yeah, cool," Bob said, nodding. His smile was beaming. "Very cool! Me too, Peggy said she'd heard about it too. You guys want a drink?"

"Sure!" Harry said. He dug in his pockets for a few dollar bills.

"Nah, I got 'em," Bob said.

"I'll help," Pete said. Nice try, Bob, trying to worm his way into the approval of the group by getting drinks. Pete could worm with the best of them! They made it to the bar at the same time, and Pete managed to catch the bartender's eye.

Oh no – what did people drink at places like this? Something bourgeois and cheap, probably.

"A bottle of your oakiest Rioja, my good man," Pete said in his most confident voice. "And five glasses."

The bartender looked down at him. "Nice one, kid," he said. "You look twelve."

"Hey!" Pete said. 

Bob was at his elbow. "It's all right, Jake, he's with me," he said.

"Heyyy!" Jake the bartender said. "Long time no see, amigo! I haven't seen you since – "

"Never mind," Bob said quickly. "Five Jack and Cokes?"

"Coming right up," Jake said.

The music was really catchy, Pete thought with approval.

He and Bob carried the drinks back over to the group, Bob somehow managing to carry three in his dexterous hands. It looked really cool! Pete wanted to try it. They distributed them among their friends.

Harry lifted one up. "Are we sure there's there alcohol in these?"

"Shut up and drink," Ken hissed.

"Thanks Bob!" Paul said. They all clinked glasses, like they'd seen jovial men do in old films, except it didn't work so well with plastic cups. Oh well – the spirit was there. They all looked at each other and laughed in camaraderie. It was pleasant, and Pete was happy. If only Don and Roger could see them now! They'd be aching to hang out with THEM!

The music changed to something equally catchy. "La la la, la la la la la la," Pete sang along inside his head.

"Who is this?" he asked Bob.

Bob looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and fascination. "It's Kylie," he said.

"Kylie…?"

"Kylie."

"Oh. Cool!" Pete said.

Bob seemed at home here, although newly ill at ease once Pete and the boys had arrived. Was he worried they were going to bust him for being underage in a bar? Pete was saddened – he would never rat out a friend like that. He put his hand on Bob's shoulder.

"I just wanted to say – "

"What?" Bob said. It was loud, so Pete leaned in to put his mouth close to Bob's ear. Their knees brushed, and Bob jumped back. He was skittish, Pete realized, like one of his mother's horses.

"It's all right!" Pete said reassuringly. "I'm not going to tell anyone I saw you here."

"Cool, cool!" Bob said.

They drank for a bit more.

People seemed to be staring at them. Probably impressed with how cool they all looked! Like real New York grown-ups, out for a sophisticated night on the town. One pointed and laughed. Pete raised his glass in salute. "Don't – oh, never mind, it's fine," Bob said.

After a few drinks, Pete was feeling loosened up and relaxed. There still weren't very many girls there, but that was okay – sometimes it was more comfortable just being around guys! Just then, Ken's phone buzzed.

"BuzzKILL, more like," Harry said.

"Oh, awesome!" Ken said, looking at his phone. "Cynthia's dad works for the Jets and she said she can get us into the official afterparty. You want to come?"

Bob was visibly dismayed at Harry's offer, at least to Pete's sensitive eyes, so he must not be too interested in football. And Pete didn't want to leave Bob on his lonesome – that would be rude!

"No thanks," Pete said, "I just got started!"

"No worries! See you Monday," Ken said, finishing his drink and collecting everyone's glasses to take back to the bar. "Bye!"

"Bye Ken! Bye Paul! Bye Harry Crane," Pete said.

He turned back to Bob. "This is a really cool place," he said, nodding. "Aren't you drinking?"

Bob looked down at the empty glass in his hand. "Oh wow, I sure finished that quickly!" he said, suddenly wavering a little and placing a hand on Pete's shoulder to steady himself.

"Let me get the next one," Pete said.

"Oh no, I'll get it – I owe you one for sticking around! Ha ha!" Bob said. That was good enough for Pete – especially since Mother had reminded him not to put anything on the family credit card until Father cleared up whatever that issue was with their bank.

In truth, although he didn't expect Bob to know this, Pete had lived a relatively sheltered life until starting life at SCH, and had certainly never come out to a place like this. The lights were so much brighter here! The floor was lit up with a wealth of multicolored spotlights. The bar was much grimier than Pete was used to – which was THRILLING! And the drinks were strong – not as strong as the ones at home, but definitely more JD than Coke, if you know what Pete meant. "This is really fun!" he said, turning to Bob.

Bob smiled – no, a smile wasn't the right word. Bob was beaming, a little neon sun lit up on his side of the room. "I'm glad you like it!" he said. "Do you want to –"

Pete finished his drink. "Let's dance!"

This must be what coming to New York was like for people who had never been to New York. Pete felt the lights and joy lighting up every part of his body. He wasn't really used to this. Usually when he danced it was with Trudy, who was a really really accomplished dancer, and they had practiced beforehand so he knew what exactly to do. This was different, spontaneous. He tried using some of the moves from their talent show performance, or the luau, or the summer camp performance of _Brigadoon_ , but they didn't really fit the music. Bob took his hand. It was sweaty and warm.

Bob was looking oddly relaxed, and Pete realized how little he ever saw any of his friends this way. Was this all their life, a series of tableaus of perfectly staged instances that refracted their planned and staged selves rather than their true nature? Adolescence was a beast. What was it like for those rare few who broke through the oppressive plasticene mold and formed reality based on THEIR wants and desires, not the wants and desires of others around them? What was it like to want something, and work to make it so? Pete didn't know; despite three years in the rough and tumble bohemian artistic world of Sterling Cooper High, all he knew was how to play by the rules, how to pick up the rulebook someone else gave him and try to succeed by that. And he hadn't seen anything wrong with that. What was Prom King, after all, but a bundle of syllables, affecting to denote a monarch?

But the problem was that Pete wanted to be Prom King. He wanted it very badly. He thought he would want it even if it wasn't the route to being a local representative and then a politician and then a senator, and then – who knows! The adult future was fuzzy and hazy, like a green light blinking in and out of existence at the end of a pier. The goal of Prom King was tangible and solid. He felt it, and tasted it. It tasted like clusters of caramel popcorn.

Bob smiled, and held out a hand. Barely knowing what he was doing, Pete took it. This was great! This felt great. This went against everything his dancing tutor had taught him: there was no precision whatsoever. Pete's posture was terrible and he was LOVING IT!

"I didn't really know what to think when I saw you here tonight!" Bob said. "Do – do you know what kind of place this is?"

"It seems like the music is pretty swell!" Pete said.

Bob held his hand close to his heart.

The music thudded in Pete's heart, like a tom-tom drum calling him to the pow-wow. The pow-wow, of his feelings. (Wait, was that racist?)

"I like this," Pete said.

"I'm glad," Bob said. He was very close to Pete, his shoulder close under the thin gray T-shirt, and Pete didn't really totally know what to do, so he kissed him.

WHAT?!

That must have been Bob's idea – but it WASN'T, it was all PETE! Pete the valiant, Pete the brave, Pete the really accepting of other people's lifestyles. And his own lifestyle? Wait – Pete pulled back.

No, actually this was basically fine. They kept kissing.

It was nice.

Pete – was happy.

At one a.m. Pete stumbled out of the bar, Bob keeping patient pace behind him.

"Let's get you home," Bob said. His arm was tight and warm around Pete. This was awesome! Pete felt so liberated and cool, and his skin and penis were SO happy! "Where do you live?"

"I don't want to go home," Pete said. He flung his arms wide to the moon, hidden for now behind the corner of a skyscraper. The city roared back at him with all its vicious glory, and Pete tilted his head back to drink it in. This, THIS was why he had come to Sterling Cooper High, to experience the glory and mystery of New! York! City! in its wonder and greatness. "Maybe EVER!!!!!"

Bob whipped his head to look at him with wide eyes, and took him by the arm in a surprisingly tight grip. "You have to go back home," he said.

"Don't have to," Pete said. They would live in a loft in Greenwich Village!

"I am _serious_ ," Bob hissed.

"I'm serious!" Pete said. They would read THE VILLAGE VOICE to each other in BED! Over EGGS! And SAUSAGES! Pete shivered with delight.

Bob's grip tightened. "You are _not_ becoming estranged from the Campbell-Dyckmans, do you understand me?"

Pete blinked at Bob, who was suddenly a little fuzzy. This wasn't what they would be reading to each other in bed at all! "How do you know who Mother's family is?" he said. "Wait, how are you so angry and your hands are so strong?"

Bob didn't flinch. "Do – you – understand – me?" he repeated.

Pete tried to jerk his arm out of Bob's grip, but it was too tight. "What's going on here?" he demanded. Bob didn't respond.

Pete was confused. He felt unwell. He had been having such a good time and Bob had been so cool, and now, what, it was all a lie? What was _HAPPENING?!?!?!?!!!!!_

"I don't feel good and you are an offputting person who may not be very nice," Pete said, and threw up on Bob's shoes.

* * *

 

Pete woke up the next morning with a fuzzy head and the knowledge that he had embarrassed himself greatly the night before.

But maybe this was fine. Exploration was part of the reason he'd started going to SCH, after all, trying out intriguing new ways of being himself and interacting with the world. Even if that involved drinking a lot of sugary drinks and kissing a boy who seemed at the very least morally dubious, if not outright Machiavellian. No one was plotting plots on Pete's watch!

Anyway, that weekend was his next big shot at regaining his place at the cool kids' table: Don Draper's goodbye party. 

Don's party promised to be THE social event of the winter. Roger was hosting it at his dad's apartment – which was actually mostly Roger's apartment since his dad was away in Europe for most of the year – a big, old artist's loft a few streets down from SCH, near where Cyndi Lauper used to live. Everyone else thought this was pretty cool. Pete couldn't really see what was so great about having your mom die and your dad run away with a series of continental chain-smokers with lots of eyeshadow, but whatever.

When Roger first mentioned the party at the lunch table, back in October, Pete had expected to come with Trudy and impress everyone with their strong movement and conversational skills, and lock down his place as a truly unimpeachable candidate for Prom King. But there was no one to go with now: Pete would have to face it out on his own.

"Come on, Campbell!" he said to himself.

He had selected a smart pair of cotton-wool trousers and a dark purple cardigan that he thought showed respect for the occasion, but also would subtly associate himself with regalness in the eyes of his fellow students. Many kings had ruled alone, anyway! Like King John! And everyone loved him for signing the Magna Carta, which just went to show.

Pete rang the doorbell. It was raining lightly, not enough that he'd bothered to bring an umbrella, and the air was chilly. He stood outside for a minute or two. He could hear people laughing through the open window a few stories up, probably too hard to hear him, or even care. Pete thought about texting someone to let him in but the idea of having to beg for entry to a party that he SHOULD be one of the most important people at was just too depressing. Someone seemed to look out at him, but no one buzzed him in.  
  
Pete despaired.  
  
He sat down on the steps, and the rain went pitter pitter pat in little drops on his head and arms. He welcomed it! Let the world take what it could from him, Pete would still have his dignity.  
  
After a minute or two the door opened, and Bob Benson stepped out.

Ugh, GREAT! The LAST person Pete wanted to see. Bob's collar was open, and his cheeks were flushed. It must be hot inside, where all the other people who weren't Pete were having fun. He could picture it now, Joan pouring punch, Don talking to three women at the same time, everyone laughing about how cute Mr. Pryce's accent was, Trudy dangling off the arm of the couch having such a good time her drop earrings were almost coming off.

Bob closed the door with a soft thunk.  
  
"I brought you a beer," he said. "They gave me one extra."  
  
Pete accepted it silently, graciously.  
  
"It's okay, buddy," Bob said after his first sip, "not everybody likes lager."  
  
"Yes," Pete said. "I'm not everybody." God!!!  
  
"It's pretty warm in there," Bob said. So this was why he'd come outside – to rub it in to Pete, that he had succeeded where Pete had dismally failed. Pete wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he swallowed his bile instead, and washed it down with another chug of beer.  
  
Bob pounded Pete's back, until Pete got his breath back. But Bob's hand stayed there, hovering lightly, presenting a question.

"I was wondering…if you wanted to go out with me?" Bob said. "Like, officially. So people can see."

OH!

Pete's mind raced. He was in a state of real consternation. He thought back to all the things that had passed between him and Bob: his being so welcoming to the new student, helping him with his college homework, getting really drunk at what turned out to be a gay bar and making out with him.

Oh no!! No wonder Bob was wondering if Pete could be in love with him!

This was actually, maybe, fine?  
  
But – what would the group say? Were gay people cool, or would this risk his reputation even further? What would Trudy say? After you kissed a man, what happened with your penises? Pete took another drink to clear his head. The question was whether to try to ally himself with Bob – Bob the manipulative, Bob the conniving, Bob the potentially destructive to the social fabric of Western civilization – or take him up. Well – this could be a great opportunity, for Pete to start to get back Into The Group. He could deal with what this meant for his campaign for kingship later.  
  
"All right," he said magnanimously. "That would be fine."  
  
"Really?" Bob said. He was beaming, with a hopeful look Pete hadn't seen on his face since their very first day of class. "Great! That's – great. Thank you. I'm really looking forward to it."  
  
He opened the door, and Pete sighed.  
  
Needs must, he reflected. Even if Bob was something of a scoundrel – needs must.

He followed Bob up three flights of stairs, and into the room.

"Bob!" several different people said at the same time. "You're back!"

"Hey guys! Room for one more?" Bob said.

"Sure!" Betty scooted over and patted the space next to her. "Great to see you, Bob!"

"Bob! Hey!" Roger said. "How you been, buddy?"

"Is that Bob?" Joan's voice came from the kitchen. "Come in and help me, I'm mixing punch!"

"Duty calls!" Bob said cheerfully, and bounded through the kitchen door, where squeals of delight greeted him.

Maybe going out with Bob Benson wouldn't be so bad after all.

Strategically, of course.

Pete squeezed on the sofa between Roger and Ken. It wasn't the greatest seat in the house, but it wasn't the worst either. He was a little worried the sofa would rub off on his pants and make the fabric dull or pilly, but he needn't have worried: Roger's upholstery was only the best. He reached for the bag of Cheetos on the coffee table, and looked surreptitiously around for a napkin. Nothing! Sighing, Pete quietly took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers on it. He'd never tell his mother that she knew best about personal embroidered cloth products, that was for sure.

Bob emerged from the kitchen with Joan, bearing punch, and set it down on the table, beaming.

"Thanks, Bob!" Betty said. She went over to pour a cup but stayed, talking and laughing.

"So are you guys, like, a thing?" Ken said.

Pete, who had been staring at Bob trying to figure out if he was laughing for real or just as part of an evil plan to get Betty on his side, looked up.

"What?" he said. In Don's absence, Betty was going to be the real linchpin of the Prom King movement, he could tell.

Ken looked at him. "Um, gee, Pete, let me count the ways. You broke up with Trudy and then started dressing really – you know. You went to a bar with us that turned out to be a gay bar, and then decided to stick around to hang out with Bob while we went to do something cool. Bob just left the party and came back with you, and since then you've been staring at him like a weirdo and not listening to anyone, although to be fair that isn't that unusual for you. Are you, you know, a thing?"

"Yes," Pete said. "Yes, I am." He stood up so that everyone might hear him. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I AM GAY FOR BOB BENSON."

Bob looked shocked, then his face blossomed into pride and happiness.

"…Cool!" Ken said.

"I didn't realize that you were, um," Harry Crane said.

"What, gay?" Joan turned to him. "It's totally fine to be gay. It's America in the twenty-first century, Harry. Anybody who has a problem with that, has a problem with me." Nobody looked like they had a problem with Joan.

"Why don't you come sit with us," Joan said to Pete, and kindly but firmly guided him to sit between her and Peggy.

This was bliss.

They stayed like that for what could have been hours.

Then Don stood up to take the floor.

"I just wanted to say a few things before I leave for California," he said. "I really appreciate you all welcoming me into your lives, especially after the time I've had. It hasn't always been easy – " He took a shuddering breath. "It really, really hasn't been easy – " Don started to cry.

"Is he OK?" Roger asked the room. "Don, buddy. Take it down a notch."

"SCH has been like a family to me," Don said, passing a hand over his eyes. "The family I never had – oh god – "

Oh god was right. Pete rolled his eyes.

"Who wants more punch," Joan said, covering over the moment with aplomb. Pete was oddly proud of her. These really were the people he should be mixing with.

The rest of the evening passed for Pete in wafting waves of social acceptance and competence: only broken when Don and Peggy stared at each other weirdly for a full minute before Peggy snapped, "Well, ' _bye_ then," and Don started to cry again.

Seriously, what the hell, Don.

Towards the end of the night, Pete was getting his coat when he heard his name in low voices in the next room. It was Peggy and Trudy – and they were talking about him!

"Are you okay with this?" Peggy said. "I was just wondering. It seems like it would be, kind of hard."

"Oh, it's fine!" Trudy said brightly. "I kind of…he does dress very well, you know, which I thought was because of who his family is, but it does kind of make sense. A lot of sense, actually." She paused. "A _lot_ of sense."

"Yeah," Peggy said.

"Also," Trudy lowered her voice even further, "he told me I was the only woman he'd ever been with."

"Oh! I, did not know that!" Peggy said.

"So it's kind of flattering! I'm so good I turn 'em straight, ha ha!"

"Ha ha!" Peggy said. "Will you excuse me? I have a, um."

She left, and Pete flattened himself against the coats to avoid being seen.

Well well well, this was what being cool meant – it meant being talked about!

Welcome to the brave new world, Pete! he told himself, grinning both inside and outside.

* * *

 

Then it was Christmas!

Christmas was one of Pete's favorite holidays to be in New York and least favorite holidays to be at the Campbell home. The city was crisp and snowy, with festive lights scattering the buildings and the sky grey and metallic. Pete knew that Ayn Rand was generally understood to be a horrible human being, but he really liked what she said about New York buildings.

The Campbells had a big Christmas tree in their front room, delivered by friendly working men with strong arms. Mother supervised, and tipped them a crisp $5 note each. Pete was embarrassed: he paid them another $20 out of his own money. He didn't have any more in his wallet, but he didn't like to be the kind of rich person who poor people talked about. Pete wanted to be accepted by all people, and maybe one of them would remember what a nice and generous person Pete was and tell all his working-class friends about him. It was just a thought! He told the workman this offhandedly, just to make sure he got the message.  

On Christmas Eve, Pete and Buddy walked with Father and Mother to the big Presbyterian church for the late night carol service. When he was growing up, Pete prided himself on his contralto. But his voice had begun to truly break this year, and Pete was worried he was losing it. Not yet, though: he brought the descant on " _Venite Adoremus_ " to such soaring heights that he even moved himself. He had been in the choir when he was younger, and that was always his favorite part. The church was warm and cozy, and Pete was happy.

Things just felt right.

Until Christmas morning, which was a shambles of a gift-giving. Pete had carefully selected a fountain pen for Father, and even had the man in the shop wrap it, so there would be nothing to criticize, but of course something had gone a little bit wrong and the nib was slightly the wrong size – really it had been Pete's fault for not double checking.

"Oh well, there's always next year," Father said, setting it aside.

He gave his mother a silk scarf. She put it upstairs with all the others.

Pete's father gave him a tie in the Campbell family tartan. Pete opened it and looked for a moment, truly stunned. "Father. Really?" he said.

"I thought it might remind you where you came from," his father said.

Pete closed the box. "Of course." Of course his father had given him something that reminded him he was on the Wrong Path for a Campbell. But Pete took pride in the fact that if he was a disappointment, at least he was a disappointment by choice.

He and Buddy exchanged new leather-bound weekly planners, like they did every year.

Pete's mother gave him a wallet clip.

"Thank you, Mother," he said.

"It protects it so criminals can't read it with their scanners," she explained. "I want you to stay safe."

"That's very thoughtful, Mother," he said.

In the afternoon, Pete decided to go for a walk, while it was still light outside. He was surprised when Buddy joined him. Together they crunched down the sleety sidewalk, gritty with salt and dirt. They walked past closed doors with warm lights behind them, and the few restaurants that were open on the day. Without speaking, they turned downtown, towards Roosevelt.

"I just wanted to say I think it's really cool what you're doing," Buddy said.

Pete was surprised by this.

"Really?" he said.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Buddy said, "it's not for me, but I think it's cool."

"Thank you," Pete said sincerely. "I think you're pretty cool too."

They walked some more. The sky was turning darker grey as the sun fell lower behind the thick blanket of clouds.  

"Hey, we could get the train to LaGuardia from here," Pete said a few minutes later, when they reached a subway stop. "Where do you want to go?"

"Haha, yeah!" Buddy scrunched up his face and looked at the sky. "Maybe Hawaii," he said. "Yeah, Hawaii, somewhere hot, and way out of the city. Some girl bringing me a tiki drink in a coconut on the beach, or, or canoeing around a nice blue lake. I mean _way_ out of the city, you know, like Maui. Or Fiji maybe. What about you?"

"Maybe Wyoming," Pete said. "Roaming the range, you know. But actually," and he was surprised to hear himself think it, never mind say it, "I'm pretty happy in New York."

They went back home and at eight o'clock Pete took a dram of whisky with his father, like always. He thought his mother was asleep already, but when he went upstairs and passed her room the record player was on: she was listening to Johnny Jet and the Rockets.

* * *

The first week back in school in January was GREAT.

At lunch Bob and Pete held hands. It wasn't different for men, hands worked the same way! Who knew. Pete continued to feel like a whole world was opening up in front of him, the world tilting under his feet to reveal new heavens, new earths. All his friends opened in front of him like a flower, morning glories reaching towards the sun. It felt _wonderful_. Pete basked in the attention and acceptance of the Cool Kids' Table. Betty asked if he was coming to the lacrosse game on Friday. Joan laughed at one of his jokes – not at _him_ , at one of his _jokes_! It was incredibly refreshing!

There were only two thorns in the lion's paw. The first was that Don wasn't even there to see it, when Pete wanted more than anything for Don to see him for who he, Pete, really was, a really successful charming funny and popular guy! The second was Pete's knowledge that all this was nearly mostly because of his going out with Bob Benson, not his own merits. Oh sure, Bob was funny and nice and charismatic and really good-looking. Pete could understand the appeal. He could understand it a _lot_. But Pete was all those things too! Why not him on his own?

But even the superficial feelings of acceptance were just too good, too addictive. Pete could no more resist them than the anemone could resist the call of the sea. So what if he knew deep down inside that none of this was really because of him. Wasn't achievement good enough, no matter how you got there?

It was, Pete told himself, it was.

It _was_.

The second semester of senior year brought with it a whole new coursing river of challenges and responsibilities. To prepare them for the world outside SCH, many of their classes included group and paired assignments. In Chemistry, Pete and Bob found themselves working with Joan and Roger. How perfect!!! They carried out their assignments and presentations with the utmost competence, coolness and skill. Future leaders of society? Yes they were!

In English, they had to give individual book reports on a book of their choice, but Pete was looking forward to discussing his thoughts with Bob on this anyway.

In Politics, the students were working hard on their end-of-year presentations. They had to research an issue, write a long speech about it and practice presenting it, until they could give it confidently and with authority. Pete and Bob had stayed partners – OBVIOUSLY – and met in the library to figure out what they should do it on.

"This is tough," Pete said, "because a lot of the race stuff is out now that Obama is president and Aretha sang."

"Yyyeah," Bob said. "Okay – maybe let's do a little bit of background reading and brainstorming?" He brought out a huge heavy stack of books about politics and how to write a research paper. And a well-thumbed copy of _How to Win Friends and Influence People._ Wow – Bob had come _prepared_.

"Great idea!" Pete said.

"Thanks!" Bob said.

They really did make a great team.

They talked about several important issues. Pete wrote them down especially because they were really impressive, the kind of thing he needed to brush up on more. Bob was a pretty great debate prep partner. The issues they talked about were:

  * Nuclear disarmament: Obviously incredibly important to the future of the human race, but kind of retro and also a little bit girly? Not that there was anything wrong with that, but still, maybe not.
  * Environmentalism: Clean energy sounded cool, but same issues.
  * Free trade versus protectionism: "I don't think many of the other students will understand this issue," Pete said. (In truth Pete wasn't really sure if he would understand the issue, and if there was one thing he knew about public speaking, the most important thing was to sound like you knew what you were talking about.)
  * Gay rights, women's rights: "Obama's going to fix those," Pete said confidently, "so we don't really have to worry about them."



Eventually they narrowed it down to two, both revolving around international relations. This was a good choice for Bob and Pete, because they were both really good at relating to people, as evidenced by their social success at the cool kids' table at SCH. Pete especially knew that good social relationships didn't come easy!

The first idea was China, and how to deal with the North Korea Situation. Which was hard! The second was the Cuba embargo, which Bob liked because it was something the United States could do by itself, so they could spend more time on practicing how to be persuasive instead of having to analyze like a million different things.

"I think it would also be a really good idea to talk to people about how it affects them," Bob said. "There are a lot of Cubans in New York, and it could be pretty compelling if we got some quotes from them – maybe about how they could see their family again, or visit their old home. Make it personal."

"Of course!" Pete said. "And I have a little bit of experience pounding the pavement. I think that sounds like a really good idea." He gazed at Bob. "I think I've figured out what it is about you," he said thoughtfully. "It's your old school!"

"My what?" Bob said.

"Your old school in Washington DC," Pete said. "That's how you're so good at this, and know so much about government and public speaking!"

"Oh – oh yeah," Bob said. He looked alarmed. "I mean, it wasn't really a very…government…school…no, I mean, you know a lot more about it than I do!"

This was ridiculous. "Bob Benson, you are really underselling yourself," Pete said patiently. "You study hard and you work hard. You have a good relationship with people, sometimes even better than I do. Ha ha! You just need to believe in yourself a little!" There, that had been a good speech.

"You work really hard too," Bob said. "I like that you try so much."

Bob noticed!!!!

Trudy passed them, arms full of books. "Hey!" she said. She looked good. Pete was proud. "You guys are so cute," she said wistfully. "I hope you're looking forward to Burns Night – tell your mother I'm sorry to be missing it this year."

Burns Night?

Oh no, Burns Night!

Pete was expected to bring a partner to his parents' Burns Night dinner, and it was just that weekend! He'd forgotten to tell his parents that he and Trudy had broken up, and he definitely hadn't told them that he and Bob were going out. What if Bob couldn't make it? Pete would have to sit across from an empty place setting while everyone knew that he was an unlovable failure!

"Bob," he said, "there's a social emergency."

Bob's eyes flashed. "My favourite kind," he said.

Pete's heart swelled, or something did.

* * *

 

Although Bob had sworn up and down he would make it, and could dress appropriately, Pete was still worried that Bob wouldn't come to their Burns Night dinner after all. He worried about this all afternoon, while the caterers prepared the food, and he tied his kilt, positioned his sporran and combed his hair. What would his parents say? They hadn't minded when he said he was bringing another boy, but they would DEFINITELY mind if the table was an uneven number!  

Pete's fretfulness was assuaged when Bob arrived at 6:30 pm promptly. Bob was holding a large ungainly bouquet, and wearing a rental kilt, the sheen of the dry-clean chemicals glinting off the sporran.

"Oh _no_ ," Pete said.

The kilt was an error. There was no way Bob could have known, but the tartan he had chosen was as unwelcome in his parents' home as if it had been a MacDonald. It was a Campbell tartan all right, but the edged red weave of the Cawdor Campbells – and everyone knew Pete's great-grandfather Colin Campbell had been jilted by Muriel Cawdor Campbell the day of their wedding, making the Cawdor Campbells forever pariahs among the New York branch, and making it a tartan not to be worn in this house!

"For Christ's sake, what is that accoutrement on your thighs!" Pete hissed. "Come upstairs at once."

Bob who was resolutely holding onto his bouquet, at first resisted. "I have to present my hostess gift!" he said.

"No one will care about your hostess gift if you're seen wearing that adulterous trash!" Pete said. He frogmarched Bob upstairs to his bedroom, gardenias and all, and closed the door emphatically behind them. Bob didn't even seem ashamed, he just looked around him, wondering. After some searching in Pete's closet, a suitable replacement was found: a plain Stewart tartan that Buddy once bought Pete as a joke.

"Much better," Pete said, relieved like a big vise had just been released from his chest.

This was fine.

Father and Mother noticed, of course, but it didn't matter. They also noticed, with the lack of comment that implied appreciation, Bob's perfect manipulation of the soup spoon and the oyster fork, and the expert way he slipped into a haggis, without knocking the offal all over his plate. By the cranachan, the Stuyvesants were murmuring, the Wellands were cooing, and the Astors were quietly clamouring to know who the young man was with the youngest Campbell boy. Bob refused whisky – a good sign – until Father pressed it on him, when he accepted politely.

After dinner, the guests dispersed informally: the Duponts with the Archers and Stuyvesants to play cards, the Astors with the Wellands to drink whisky. Pete was about to warn Bob away from any in-depth conversation with his parents, when Mother made a WASPy beeline for them.

"I don't believe I caught – where did you say you grew up, Robert?" Mother said, fixing a welcoming eye on Bob.

"It's Bob, actually!" Bob said brightly. Pete winced. "And, ah. You know – around."

"Bob's from Europe, Mother," Pete jumped in. "He's just…being shy. Because he doesn't want to show off." He said this affectionately, as if it were a well-known quirk. Bob shot him a surprised look, then nodded at Pete's mother.

Pete did not know why he wanted to be so protective of his friend. He knew he did not want Mother to find out that Pete had invited someone into the Campbell home without even asking who his people were – but he also wanted Bob to feel comfortable here. Maybe that was the Campbell good manners people often spoke about with such arch tones.

"Oh! Europe," Mother said. "That's lovely. – Eton? Or…?"

"Oh, no – Le Rosey," Bob said, getting a little of his confidence back.

"Switzerland!" Mother said, impressed. "You must know Anna Dupont's son."

"Oh, I doubt he'd remember me!" Bob said. "I was very studious, you know, didn't really make friends with the other boys. Ha ha!"

"Studious and shy, well," Mother said. She looked Bob up and down, from the top of his thick wavy brown hair to his bare calves. "I'm sure _I'd_ remember you."

"Mother, Bob and I are going to talk to Tarquin Welland," Pete said, and steered Bob away.

"Close one!" he hissed when they were away.

"Wow," Bob said. Now that they were in the drawing room and away from people, Bob was staring around him with a dazed look, all over the art pieces, the Jacobite glass on the mantel, the wood panels, the green leather chairs. "You _live_ here?"

"In a manner of speaking," Pete said, looking grimly down into his whisky glass. It was natural for Bob to be impressed with the trappings of Pete's family home, but how was understand what it meant to live in the stifling wooden box of Pete's people? "Anyway, it's nothing compared with my cousins' – according to Father, anyway."

Even though Pete knew he and Bob were only sort of fake dating, he was still pleased at Bob's obvious joy at the room. And he was even more impressed with his friend's manners.

Bob shook hands with exactly the right amount of pressure: confident and warm, but not aggressive or threatening. He complimented the younger women's shoes and the older women's necklaces. He laughed a little too much at jokes, but that just made everyone smile at him more. When Mrs. Astor came through to the drawing room, Bob held the door at exactly the right angle.

"How did you learn to _do_ that?" Pete asked.

"Le Rosey," Bob said.

"I thought you went to school in DC," Pete said.

"I've been all over," Bob said, smiling blankly.

Pete knew a polite brush-off when he saw one.

But if Bob had been educated at a fancy European boarding school, what was he doing at SCH?

* * *

 

After the success with Pete's family, their "relationship" was even more bliss. Pete and Bob already had invitations to the Wellands' for dinner, and Mother had been trying to secure a taste of their new cook's crab bisque for weeks! And they were KILLING it on their schoolwork! This was really going SO WELL.

In fact, almost too well? Bob was helping Pete so much, and Pete didn't know what to do to help him back!

Bob stopped by Pete's locker between English and gym class every day.

"Do you want anything from the bakery?" he would say.

Or, "I'm going to go get some Skittles."

On Valentine's Day, Bob brought him a muffin from Starbucks, with a shiny heart sticker stuck on the wrapper.

"Lemon blueberry!" Pete said. "That's my favorite!"

"I know," Bob said. "I smelled the wrapper you left on your desk in math."

It was just the nicest thing anyone had ever done for Pete. He didn't know what he could do to make it up to Bob. He hadn't thought of anything at all. Then he did know.

"Bob," he said kindly, "come with me."

Bob looked excited. He followed Pete down the senior hall, up through the science hallway, to the cafeteria and finally towards the counselor's office. There Bob's expression changed from beaming and hopeful to confused and a little worried. Pete understood: it must be Pete's new confident and take-charge attitude. Pete threw back his head like a lion getting ready to eat the gazelle.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" Pete said. "We're finally going to sort out your papers!" 

"Oh, no," Bob said.

He was clearly alarmed and confused by Pete's largesse. Pete explained, "It's my present to you! For Valentine's day, and the muffin."

"It's only because, um, they came already," Bob said. "They're already here. So there's no need to talk to anyone about them!"

"Oh – great!" Pete said. He was a little sad that Bob hadn't bothered to tell him – Pete felt like by now, they were 'in it' together.

Bob looked like he was going to cry. "I've just remembered I have to go," he said, and wrenched his arm out of Pete's confused grasp.

But – it was Valentine's Day!

What was going on? Why was his attempt at demonstrating his feelings being met with alarm and rebuff?

Unless...there wasn't something wrong with Bob's papers, was there? Pete could help!

Pete knew what he had to do.

He called Peggy.

"I'm meeting someone in five minutes," she said. " _Five minutes_."

"No problem, Peggy, this won't take long," Pete reassured her.

They met up by the gym in a very dramatic and undercover way. "In your role as student council president, do you have access to the keys to the counselor’s office?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I, um," Pete said. He hadn't thought this far ahead. He needed a reason! A plausible reason! "I need to fill out a college admissions form by Saturday, but I forgot to copy down my full transcript before the weekend. If I can't get in to see my papers, my application will be late!"

Peggy looked like she was going to argue back, but Stoner Stan appeared and she looked flustered.

"Peggy can't stay," Pete said, defending her honor, because that was the kind of gentleman he was. "She's meeting someone."

"Is that so?" Stan said. He looked amused and not annoyed at all. He was so weird. Pete didn't understand him. He looked to Peggy to see how she responded, but she was occupied, her face hidden as she had taken out a key ring and was counting along it.

"Here you go," she said, twisting one off and handing it to him.

Pete took it courageously, forgetting all about his previous wonderings. Now he would finally find out what was going on with Bob's papers!!

Pete left Peggy and Stan and went back into the school. He knew the building would be open late because it was cheerleading practice night. He waited until everyone had left after the last class, then walked to the counselor’s office, checking over his shoulder the whole time. The key worked, although Peggy had forgotten to give him the key to the filing cabinet! He spent a few minutes checking through drawers, and finally found the key in the secretary's desk. He unlocked the cabinet, pulled it open to A-D, and flipped through the Bs.

There was only one item in the folder marked "Benson, Bob" – the note Mrs. Blankenship had written on their first day.

There were no papers, like Bob had said there would be.

Where were the transfer papers?

What was going on?

Why had Bob lied to him?

Who even _was_ Bob?

WHAT WAS GOING ON?!??!

* * *

 

After that day, Bob kind of avoided Pete. This was especially confusing because things had been going, in Pete's opinion, really well, but now he and Bob hardly ever spoke except about school things, and although they still hung out at the Cool Kids' Table, Pete suspected everyone could tell their ardor had cooled and maybe they were even at risk of losing their usual place at the table. AAAAAARGH!

All this meant it was even more important to work hard at projects and think about what to do with the rest of his life.

Which Pete did.

Before he knew it, it was spring break. The city was truly springing, with the green airy breeze song of birds in flight and trees in bloom. When Pete was Prom King, he would take an open top carriage ride through Central Park with whoever ended up being his prom partner. The trees would have white blossoms like they did now, and everything would be fresh and scented and floral in a New York kind of way.

On the first day out of school, Pete went to MoMA. It was one of the best places in the city to think, and one of Pete's favorite places in New York. It was where the heritage of centuries resided, the future and the present and the past all meeting in art. It meant that civilization was here with him, and civilization would continue, long after Pete was gone. The idea made him sad, but also somehow strangely content. No matter how hard he strove or how little he accomplished, the world would tick on. The bare white walls were a calming contrast to the wood-cluttered Campbell home, and they also made Pete think about a coolness, a calm space at the center of himself that other people had and he lacked. What made an artist? Could Pete be an artist? Pete knew really he could never be an artist. Sometimes, deep in the night or in the small quiet heart of the morning, Pete worried he could never even be an interesting person.

Pete walked past the big line of tourists waiting to get in, because his parents were members and he had a supplementary card. But the guard shook her head. "This expired in November," she said, pointing to an almost imperceptibly tiny figure on the back of the card. "See the date here?"

"They probably just forgot to give me the new one," Pete explained. But she went over to the computer to check. "Nope, the whole membership expired. We tried to take the automatic payment, but it was declined for insufficient funds."

Pete tried to explain about his father's obvious material wealth and the bank account in the Caymans, but she just clucked, "Sorry, kid," and pointed him back towards the tourist line.

Worse luck!!

When he finally got to the front and was heading towards the galleries, who should he bump into but Peggy – and Stoner Stan?! What were THEY doing here?

"Hey Pete!" Stan said. "Long time no see, comrade." He had a good handshake. "How's your spring break going?"

"Adequately," Pete said.

"We're here for our art project," Peggy said, rushed. "To look at the art."

"Oh, cool!" Pete said. "Which art?"

"The Degas," Stan said, at the same time Peggy said, "The Modernists."

"Sounds great," Pete said. "Well. Enjoy!"

He went to the Water Lilies room and sat there for two hours. The purple of the pastel shifted at the edge of his vision, fluctuating in color like light flickering on water. It really was a remarkable accomplishment. Pete was in many ways a man in turmoil, but he felt at peace here.

He didn't want to go home.

* * *

 

The Monday after spring break, Pete woke up and felt sad. He sprang up out of bed with far from his usual buoyance.

Harry, Ken and Paul were in their usual table, looking content and generally happy with themselves and their life situations. Disgustingly typical. They didn't have a roller coaster ride of emotions to deal with, nor a baffling life plan and boyfriend situation. They had just been hanging out all week at Cynthia's dad's house in the Hamptons, as usual relaxing in the lap of luxury as provided by someone not even themselves.

Pete got an orange juice from the vending machine. It tasted sickly in his mouth.  

After a whole week of Bob basically avoiding him, Pete decided enough was enough. It was time to do some investigative work about what exactly was going on here.

He went up to Bob at lunch.

"Hey, Bob!" he said very casually, to give the other boy a false sense of security. "Do you want to catch up about our Politics project later today?"

Bob looked up from his pizza square, his face an unreadable façade of cheerfulness. Pete's heart twisted – Bob had used to look at him like a laser cannon of adoration, but not any more, it seemed.

"Sure thing, Pete!" he said.

"Sounds great!" Pete replied, matching Bob's buoyance exactly. Oh, it was _on!_

"Get a room, you two! Ha ha," Joan said.

They met in the art room during free period, when no one was in.

"I had a look in the counselor's office," Pete said.

"That's a shame," Bob said. "That's a real shame, Pete."

"I found out," Pete said, "about your transfer files."

Bob's face was still perfectly blank, like a mask in a gallery. One of the scary ones! "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said.

Um, Pete was pretty sure Bob did!! "How your files," he sneered, "are…not files, because you're not a transfer student at all. In fact, Bob, I don't even know if you're a student of any kind."

"We're all students of life, Pete," Bob said evenly.

"That's not the kind of student I meant, _Bob_ ," Pete said.

"I'd be very careful where you spread rumors around," Bob said vehemently, in a low voice. With all the talking to each other intensely, their faces were very close together. "I wouldn't want you to HURT YOURSELF."

"Me NEITHER," Pete said. "But I don't think we have to worry about that, do we? BOB??"

He turned to go, but Bob quickly took a small step, between Pete and the door. Bob was tall! Pete had a lot of feelings really rushing through him, but the main feeling was one of dominance, but also of longing. Bob's blank face flickered, and it looked like he might be having the same feelings too. But then he smiled, and stepped aside.

"See you in class!" he said cheerfully, as if they'd been talking about art or their homework, and not Pete's suspicions.

Whew – that had been TENSE! Pete felt a surge of relief as he walked coolly into the hall. Pete had the upper hand, he was sure. And not only that, but Bob knew it too.

Oh no – they still had to work on their Politics project together!

This was fine.

* * *

It was the last day of English class, and everyone got ready to give their final presentations. They'd all gotten to pick their own books this time.

Pete chose _The Last of the Mohicans_. He had picked it as it was a classic for several reasons: it featured the perennial struggle of man vs the wilderness, and nature; it was about the striving to live in harmony with the land, but also defeat your enemies; and the lead character was called Hawkeye, which was a GREAT name. Although as it turned out, in the book the character was actually called "Natty Bumppo", which no offense to the great American writer James Fenimore Cooper was one of the stupidest names Pete had ever heard in his life and that included many Episcopalians. But he pressed on and gave a talk that he felt very inspired by.

Peggy gave her report on _The Art of Seeing_. It was a really compelling presentation on what made art interesting, and how to truly look at things. Pete was fascinated almost against his will: with her feminine intuition, Peggy had brought a whole new different way of thinking about the world to his attention.

"Did Stan write that for you?" Harry said.

"Please, like Stan can read," Peggy said, looking pleased.

Stan shrugged genially. "It's true. She has to sound out the letters for me."

Stan didn't even turn in a book report. He said he hadn't had time because he was out of class on a photography assignment for art. But it turned out his GPA was so good he could skip the last paper and still get a B+, which with his portfolio was good enough for most of the colleges he'd been accepted to, including NYU. This shocked Pete, but on reflection it just went to show that you never can judge a book by its cover, or a fellow man by the aroma of weed that wafted around him literally wherever he went. Stan seemed happy, and Pete, generously, was happy for him. 

Ken wrote his on Fight Club. "It has a lot to say about masculinity," he said thoughtfully. "I also found the unreliable narrator really interesting. It made the story much more interesting, and also made me question-"

"Whether or not you'd be punk enough to start a Fight Club?" Pete interjected. What, he was just saying what everyone was thinking! But nobody laughed.

Betty stood up. "At first I started with Pride and Prejudice, because it's a classic of the era. But actually I changed my mind halfway through and found a really interesting writer from New York. It's less of a book and more of a pamphlet. It's called the S.C.U.M. Manifesto."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Blankenship cackled.

"The Society for Cutting Up Men," Betty went on.

"I took the assignment as a starting place, and actually prepared two presentations," Bob said when it was his turn. "To demonstrate my keenness and intellectual ability– "

Mrs Blankenship looked at him over the top of her glasses. "I'm not listening to _two_ book reports from one of you little twerps," she said. "Pick one."

Bob looked flustered. "They kind of complement each other," he said.

"Pick one."

Pete scoffed audibly.

Bob Benson had written his report on a book called _The Talented Mr. Ripley_ , which was by a woman but nevertheless seemed interesting. Pete's attention was laser sharp on the specifics. And after the first few minutes, every word was more alarming than the next.

Literally was Bob Benson going to try to kill him?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!

Well, trying was all Pete felt like he had left, so trying is what Pete would do.

The morning of the Politics presentation dawned bright and clear. Pete chugged a glass of orange juice and felt refreshed and perky. He would outface Bob Benson and his mastermind ways, win the votes for his proposal, and be a clear example of what it took to be a leader of men: statesmanlike, confident, cosmopolitan, well groomed, accomplished. Yes! He walked across Central Park with a swing in his step. A bicyclist passed him, jingle-jangle, and Pete waved merrily at it. Spread the love around!

As he walked up the steps to SCH, the double doors blew open with a welcoming thump. Pete was READY FOR ACTION!

The senior students all filed in to the class, a feeling of heightened expectation in the air. Notebooks were shuffled, files refreshed, conversation took place in hushed whispers at the back of the class.

"Right!" Mr Pryce said. "Yes."

Bob sat next to Pete, his knee nigh quaking with indignation. Bob was tense. Pete was relaxed.

GOOD! That was the way it SHOULD be.

Finally their turn came around, and Pete and Bob stood up and made their way to the podium. Pete surreptitiously jostled Bob to get there first, but he was pretty sure no one noticed. They stood at the front of the room together, facing their co-students, in a way that felt oddly right, although Pete didn't dwell on that feeling for too long. Bob was a confusingly comforting person to have at his side at a time like this.

"We speak on behalf of Cuba," Pete said. "Our motion is to ask the USA to relax their sanctions against our fair country."

"Too long have we suffered under the yoke of the capitalist oppressors," Bob said.

Pete nodded. "We want the openness and liberation that comes with being an advanced Western economy, a light unto nations. And McDonald's!" He'd thought of that joke himself.

Bob spoke for a few minutes, reading out the arguments they had prepared together. Even though Bob was now 'out' to Pete as his enemy, Pete could still admire his accomplishments as a speaker and a political entity: he was pretty good at this.

"And now I'll turn over to Pete," Bob said. He smiled broadly, so broadly that Pete knew he must be nervous. "Pete's going to say some interesting things, and I'm really proud to have him as a partner."

"Thank you, Bob," Pete said sincerely. That was nice – he didn't have to say that.

"And to reflect the diversity of America and the need for mutual respect between our countries," Bob continued, "Pete will present the second half of our argument in Spanish."

Fuck you, Bob Benson. Fuck you fuck you fuck fuck fuck fuck

The crowd was looking at Pete expectantly. He smiled, and looked at his cards. "Y- _si_ ," he said. He took a deep breath. Maybe this was all a stress nightmare, and he'd wake up. Maybe it was a vengeful god, testing him. Maybe – maybe Bob Benson was the devil come to earth in human form and Pete needed to leap out and stab him in the heart to destroy him once and for all. No – Presbyterians didn't believe in the devil, never mind.

" _Por dos_ ," Pete said, " _los_ , um, economic _blockados estan muy malo_. _Malos_ ," he corrected himself. " _Muy, muy malos_." He paused. "We, um, _nosotros_ request.. _aren_ to have them _liftido_."

Bob was looking at him with sheer victory on his face.

 

Pete took Bob by the shoulder and pushed him towards the art studio. He was angry in his heart, angry in his face, angry basically everywhere.

"What the hell was that?" he raged at Bob.

"Improvising," Bob said placidly.

"You can't expect I'm not going to tell Principal Cooper about your files now," Pete said.

Bob was toying with a knife, the kind students used to make papier-mache. "Go right ahead," Bob said.

"You – you – " Pete sputtered.

Suddenly he knew that Principal Cooper wouldn't believe him. Or even care. It didn't matter anyway. 

Pete slumped against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor, his feelings overwhelmed by despair. He felt something sticking to the back of his jacket and remembered that not all of the paintings were dry.

Great.

He opened his eyes to see Bob looming over him. His face was triumphant still, yes, but was that – sympathy? Tempered with something else, like elderflower.

"If you want to gloat, go ahead," Pete said. He leaned back and exposed his throat. "Just make it quick."

Bob quivered – and fled. 

* * *

 

This was it. Oh my god. The most important night of Pete's life until now. Bigger than the election, bigger than the ill-fated Politics presentation, bigger than the first time he had defied his father. PROM NIGHT!!!!!

Obviously going with Bob was out of the question, and Pete didn't think he could take it if he asked Trudy and she turned him down. So on an almost whim one day at the lunch table he asked Meredith, who was a sophomore and otherwise wouldn't get to go.

Pete arrived at her door at seven p.m. on the dot to pick her up.

"Are you…in costume as a giant buttercup?" he said.

"Belle, duh!" Meredith said.

The bright yellow made him look sallow, but that was fine – nothing could take the shine off Pete's mood.

The gym was all decorated with lights and shimmering tinsel, and Pete couldn't help but feel a little spurt of joy. Parties were just so great! He practically floated his way through the first dance.

As he'd guessed, Trudy was here with a dreamy-looking boy from another school, and Pete nodded pleasantly. She nodded back with respect.

Pete went to stand next to Roger and Mona. He was feeling optimistic. Surely all his hard campaigning had paid off. And it was already a great day for him – that afternoon, he'd got his admittance letter from Dartmouth!

The doors to the gym opened, and people stared at the new couple that had just walked in.

"What the fuck is Joanie doing turning up with the new kid?" Roger said.

What _were_ Bob and Joan doing together? Except for looking great. Wow, like _really_ great. Bob was in a very nicely fitting tux and Joan in a vampy purple dress – she looked like a queen. 

It was angering actually! How dare Bob come here and embarrass Joan by being gay next to her? How dare he come here and embarrass Pete by looking fantastic and having a good time!

He had to show that he, Pete, was having the best time!

Fortunately this wasn't too hard! He circulated the room, chatting jovially with his peers, popping snacks into his mouth casually, taking Meredith for a spin around the dance floor.

"It's really nice that you brought her!" Peggy said, looking at him almost confusedly. "Like, that was a really actually nice thing to do."

Pete didn't know what to say because it wasn't something he had particularly thought about, but now that she pointed it out, it had been a really nice thing to do! Way to go, Campbell! This must just go to show what a good person he was already becoming, after all his practice at SCH.

After an hour or two of blithe dancing, chatting and nibbles, Principal Cooper got up on the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Principal Cooper said. "Please if you'll excuse me, it's time to announce Prom King and Queen for the class of 2009."

HOLY SHITTING SHIT THIS WAS IT!!! Pete stood near the front of the stage, clutching his own hands in anticipation, trying not to look too visibly smug or proud or in any way like a turtle of anxiousness was trying to jam its head out of the shell of his chest.

Principal Cooper tore open the envelope, and frowned at the piece of paper inside. "Well, this is highly unusual."

What was?!

But before Principal Cooper could read it, the double doors of the gym swung open and clanged with a clang that resonated through the hall, and into Pete's heart and head, quivering his skeletal rib cage that enclosed his palpitating heart. Time stood still like a thunder strike.

Was that…Don?

Don looked like a _mess_. He was all sweaty and his hair was sticking to his forehead in an unappealing way and his face was puffy the way Pete's father's got sometimes after a heavy weekend at the club, and he was wearing…oh, Don, not _cutoff shorts_. There was a strange girl next to him.

"I had a vision," Don said.

Betty stood up from her seat on the bleachers, where she had been talking to one of the college TAs. "What's wrong with you?" Betty said.

"I'm sorry, Birdy," he said. "Also, I met a freshman in California. Her name is Megan."

"Hi," the girl said awkwardly.

"Really, Don?" Betty said. "She looks like a twelve-year-old."

"I'm standing right here," the girl said.

Pete squared his shoulders. Even though he hadn't officially been named Prom King yet, someone was going to have to be the leadership man around here, and it was him, Pete.

"Get a hold of yourself, Don!" he snapped.

Don blinked at him. "Pete? Is that you?" He walked over to Pete and enveloped him in a big warm hug. Don's arms were so strong and he smelled so good that Pete melted into them just a little bit, breathing the air from his shoulder. Dammit – focus, Pete!

"Glad you could make it, Mr. Draper," Principal Cooper said from the stage. "If I may continue – "

"EVERYONE SHUT UP," Pete said through Don's warm shoulder.

"There was a high number of write-in votes this year, and I'm both proud and somewhat baffled to announce that this year's Prom King is, somehow inevitably – Mr. Don Draper. Please come on up."

"WHAT?" Pete said.

Don, choking up, started to walk towards the stage, his new California acquisition still on his arm.

"How did this happen?" Pete demanded. "He wasn't even ELIGIBLE!"

"What? I voted Don for Prom King," Ken said. "I mean, why the hell not, it was kind of thin pickings this year."

"HEY!" Pete said.

"Me too," Joan said. "I mean, under the circumstances."

"Sure, that seems fair," Meredith said.

"WHAT THE HELL?" Pete said.

He tore the corsage from his chest and strode over to Don.

"Is this what you consider appropriate senior behavior?" Pete snapped. "Running off to California and then coming back with – I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Megan," the girl said.

"And then turning up and expecting to be named Prom King?" Pete turned around. "What the hell kind of cross-continental catastrophe is this?!"

But by now no one except Bob was looking concerned. Betty looked resigned, and was pointedly talking to the TA again with her back to Don. Peggy looked sympathetic, but she was never one to get too involved. Ken was taking notes. Harry Crane was surreptitiously cutting off his pants just above the knee.

This was exactly the kind of poor moral behavior that Don encouraged, and did he even have the decency to look appalled? NO HE DID N okay Don was looking at Harry Crane with visible dismay, but that was just his normal face for Harry Crane.

"Are you okay?" Peggy was by Pete's shoulder.

"I worked _really hard_ ," Pete said.

She looked up at him. "I mean, did you though?"

" – I felt like a person who worked really hard," Pete said.

She squeezed his arm. "Next time lucky!" she said brightly.

But there wouldn't BE a next time, that was the whole point!!

"And Prom Queen is – Betty Hofstadt," Principal Cooper continued.

" _Awk-ward,_ " Harry Crane sang.

"SHOW SOME RESPECT," Pete said.

He pushed his way through the crowd. As he left, he heard Meredith ask, "Um, does this mean I have to get home by myself?"

And Bob offered, "I can drive you home."

WHO THE HELL HAS A CAR IN MANHATTAN, BOB?!

* * *

 

The sun rose over Central Park.

It was graduation day.

Pete sat on a rock.

He'd half been hoping there would be a roving axe murderer here, but all he found was that even in June, it was pretty chilly in the morning when there were trees and other native vegetation sucking up the heat.

"Don Draper," Pete said, throwing a stone into the lake. "Bob Benson."

Why did they all have names? His own name was a millstone of weary woe around his neck. Father was in some kind of trouble, and had been talking about taking a long trip somewhere in the south Pacific, like Togo or Vanuatu.

The problem was that Pete felt so much better when he was "with" Bob than when he wasn't "with" Bob. He didn't even need the kissing! Although Pete did enjoy the kissing, even though he didn't really understand everything that went along with it, but something told him Bob would be pretty on top of things. So to speak! Focus, Pete. …Was it bad form to jerk off in Central Park? Probably. But that wasn't the whole reason Pete was discontent.

It was that, with Bob, Pete really felt like a team that could TAKE ON THE WORLD. Pete doing the thinking and leading, Bob doing the research and supporting. Working together on school projects had been some of the happiest times in Pete's life. Not just his happiest times at SCH – his happiest times at ANYWHERE! They really "got" each other, and they worked so well together: they had come so close. He could see them in so many places. Pete, running for state senator. Bob, his chief of staff. Pete, giving an amazing speech and Bob, standing next to the podium to clasp him in a warm embrace and whisper the name of the ambassador from the Philippines, before a swish lunch of salmon en croute and casual trade negotations.

It was a thrilling future. If Bob would have him back. No – if Pete would have BOB back!

But deep in his heart he knew he would.

There was a rustling in the undergrowth.

It was Bob.

"I saw you across the lake," Bob said. Pete said nothing. Why should he say anything? Bob was the one who had screwed it all up!!!!

But Pete knew that it was really Pete who had screwed it all up, even if he could only admit it to himself when there wasn't anyone else around to see.

"I've been thinking about last night," Bob said carefully.

Pete didn't turn around.

"Now hear me out. I think we could get – further – together than apart."

Oh my god, this was THE EXACT SAME THING PETE HAD BEEN THINKING!!! They worked SO well together. Too bad that time was gone.

Before an overwhelming cloud of black despair could consume Pete, the words escaped him. "Sort of, an arrangement?" he said.

"Whatever you want," Bob said.

Pete thought.

He thought for a long time about Bob's betrayals.

He thought about the skill of the devious mind these betrayals betrayed, which could be a knife Pete whetted to kill himself – but on the other hand, it could be a knife he whetted to kill other people! Not literally. Things would never be boring with Bob Benson, that was for sure. But did Pete want a boring life? Why had he decided to go to SCH in the first place if not to make an interesting life, one full of accomplishment and adventure and a boyfriend who was really good at kissing and might someday betray him?

Pete shifted to cross his legs. He saw the boathouse across the lake.

"Do you want to go boating?" he said.

"What? Sure," Bob said, scrambling to his feet.

It was $60 for an hour. Pete didn't mind. He needed time to think. He and Bob paddled out to the middle of the lake. It was high noon, very hot.

"What's in it for you?" he said.

Bob pulled his oar out of the water, and didn't answer at first. "I love you?" he offered.

Pete waved him aside. That was obviously ridiculous. "I mean, why did you choose me?"

"I didn't at first," Bob said. "At first I just liked that you liked my pencil case. You chose me. Then I figured out who you _were_."

Of course. Despite Pete's best efforts to shed the attachment and significance of his upper-class ancestry, it was always going to be with him – and it was always going to attract people like Bob. In a way, Pete was lucky that he had attracted Bob, but in another way, it made him sad. 

"Someone thoughtful and kind, who takes the time to notice another man's pencil-case," Bob said. "Someone ambitious and driven, who wants to go all the way to the top. Because I do, too."

"I'm going to Dartmouth in September," Pete said. "What are you doing?"

Bob looked away, towards the skyline of Manhattan. He continued to play with the oar, rolling it back and forth across his knee. It was heavy. "I don't know," he said. "Getting into college is turning out to be a lot tougher than getting into SCH, that's for sure."

"Where are you from?"

Bob's cheek tightened, and Pete realized, "It's not important. My family are major donors," he said, "let me make a call."

Their knees bumped in the boat.

Pete decided he didn't care.

"The French call this _plein soleil_ ," Pete said.

"I love that you know that," Bob said.

"I love that you love that I know that," Pete said. And in that moment he realized it was true.

"Do you want to go to graduation?" Bob said.

"I would love to graduate with you," Pete said.

So they paddled on, boat lifting with the current, borne happily forward into the future.

 


End file.
